


Spoken in silence

by anamia



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was a running joke first in the medical school and later in the Necker that Combeferre felt nothing. His colleagues and friends swore that he had taken out his emotional capacities and replaced them with extra memory, that you could say anything to him and receive only a raised eyebrow and a cutting line, that even when emotions flickered across his face he was, at his center, a still pool of water, calm and unchanging.</p><p>Enjolras knew better."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoken in silence

**Author's Note:**

> I… am not entirely sure what this is except that it’s definitely catharsis fic because I can’t go to sleep without draining some of the feelings. It’s, um, description fic about Combeferre and also feelings and also Enjolras. And it’s more than a little wish fulfillment, but approximately 100% of what I ever write about those two is wish fulfillment, so this is not new.

There was a running joke first in the medical school and later in the Necker that Combeferre felt nothing. His colleagues and friends swore that he had taken out his emotional capacities and replaced them with extra memory, that you could say anything to him and receive only a raised eyebrow and a cutting line, that even when emotions flickered across his face he was, at his center, a still pool of water, calm and unchanging.

Enjolras knew better.

Combeferre had a nearly endless supply of patience, true, and a superhuman ability to fake patience when he had finally run out, but patience did not equal stone, and the pool of Combeferre's soul was far from still. Enjolras, whose emotions shone through even the most stoic of expressions and who was only ever accused of being unfeeling by those who sought to do him the greatest possible harm, grew nearly incensed when he heard people characterize his friend as empty of feelings, grew angry even when Combeferre himself shook his head or put a hand on his shoulder or otherwise whispered to him to let the matter go in that silent language that only they spoke fully. He shook off Combeferre's restraining hand or pretended not to see his warning looks and leveled icy glares on the offending speaker, no matter whether he had never been introduced to them before or whether he counted them among his closest friends. He knew that not everyone could know Combeferre as he did, knew that his friend was reserved by preference as well as by nature, but that did not excuse anyone from seeing the truth, a truth so obvious to Enjolras that he had been stunned rather than angry the first time it became apparent that most people had not realized it.

Combeferre did not feel things shallowly. Combeferre felt them _quietly_.

It had taken time for Enjolras to learn the signals, for all that he had always known they were there. In a group filled with men who displayed emotions through actions and words, it took time to realize that, in Combeferre's case, one had to look for absences. Combeferre expressed himself through silences as much as through words, retreated into himself when he thought he had little to offer, offered a quiet smile when he felt as though he might shatter so as not to worry his friends. It was not, Enjolras knew, a deliberate deception, or even a conscious attempt to disregard his own importance, but rather a practiced technique designed to deflect attention and fill himself with the words of others rather than those produced by his own mind.

Recognizing the signs of overwhelming emotions was always easier when they were alone. Enjolras had quickly become attuned to the sound of pages no longer turning or a pen no longer scratching across the page, and each time he caught it he would look up, would glance towards his friend to check whether he had paused to think or paused to fight from being overwhelmed by his emotions. Combeferre, who seemed able to read his very thoughts, would meet his eyes regardless of which situation had caused his momentary lapse in concentration and smile, that soft, fond smile that he reserved for Enjolras. It was a reassuring smile, a promise spoken in something deeper than words, an assurance that no matter their situation Enjolras could count on him to remain by his side. (Enjolras never told Combeferre how much he feared the day when he might do something that caused that smile to vanish.)

On nights when the smile failed to loosen the tension in Combeferre's shoulders, nights when Combeferre closed in on himself so far that Enjolras half feared he would never emerge, on those nights Enjolras would set aside his own work and put gentle hands on his friend's shoulders, would return Combeferre's smile with one of his own and murmur, "sit with me?" On warm nights they would sit side by side on the roof, heads tilted back to examine the stars while Combeferre talked of astronomy and Enjolras talked of eternity, their fingers sometimes touching sometimes not. When it was too cold for the stars they would sit before the grate, lit during the winter, swept during the transitional months, and lean against each other and talk of anything they chose, would give voice to the thoughts running through their minds without fear of judgement or condemnation. Sometimes Combeferre spoke of what troubled him; often he did not, but his shoulders would loosen with time and he would participate in the conversation rather than merely letting Enjolras talk.

When at last they retired to bed Combeferre never failed to send Enjolras off with a hug, a firm embrace that expressed his love and his affection and his gratitude in a way that Enjolras understood perfectly. Enjolras would rest his forehead against Combeferre's shoulder and smile into his shirt and let Combeferre tangle one hand in his hair. Then they would separate, would murmur their goodnights, would each retire to his own room to sleep or to work. In the morning neither would mention it, but when Combeferre smiled the expression would reach his eyes.

 


End file.
